


First Kiss

by thinkpink20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 15:47:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sees this as a very simple process...</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Kiss

John wakes in the night at the sound of feet on the stairs up to his bedroom. For a second he just lies perfectly still, realises his fingers have a death-grip on his blanket until -

"John?"

Sherlock's voice cuts through the darkness and John exhales loudly, full of relief.

"Jesus, Sherlock! What are you - "

But then the bedsheets are being lifted up, quite without his permission, and there is a warm body climbing in next to him.

"Hey, hey, hey! What are you - "

"Oh, stop being so flustered, John," Sherlock sighs, sounding bored. "It's only personal space."

"Yes," John replies, realising he is pulling the bedclothes up around his chin like an old grandmother. _"My_ personal space. Which you're now invading."

"Merely a social concept," Sherlock tells him as he curls his leg up over John's knee, calves brushing together. "Go back to sleep if you must."

"Go - go - " He stutters. "Sherlock, how am I supposed to - Bloody hell."

The warm body next to him has now stilled and Sherlock's breathing sounds calm and considered and even in the quiet of the bedroom. John would say that it felt nice, actually, if it wasn't so... unexpected.

Though if he's being honest with himself, 'unexpected' is actually a bit of a lie. He's not stupid, he knows that for months they've been getting closer, touching one another more often, sharing plates of food, forgetting whose money is whose at the supermarket.

And all this on top of shooting people for one another and rescuing one another from evil madmen in swimming pools.

They've been slipping quietly into something unnamable for some time, and yet John still finds himself surprised at this sudden edition in his bed.

"Is there some sort of toxic experiment growing in your bedroom?"

Sherlock huffs, slightly indignant. John feels the breath on his cheek and tries to repress a shiver. "No, I'm not a complete slob, John."

"An unexplained apparition, then? Ghosts, vampires, werewolves?"

There is the feel of fingers curling into the soft, warm material of the t-shirt he's wearing and John lets his eyes fall shut in the darkness. "You and Mrs Hudson really need to stop watching those odd films in the afternoons."

"Right, yes," John says, hoping his voice isn't betraying what having a leg thrown over his is doing to him. "Of course, I'm the one with unusual habits."

"Are these stuttering questions an attempt to find out what I'm doing here?"

"Ye - Wait, I'm not stuttering!"

"No," Sherlock concedes, "But your breathing is very uneven."

John listens in silence for a moment to the sound of his own breath and realises that yes, actually, Sherlock is right.

Though when isn't he, John supposes.

"Fine," he says, when he feels like he's calmed down enough. "Is there any chance of you telling me what this is all about?"

Sherlock moves a little bit, shifting more of his long, warm limbs against the careful plains of John's body. Despite the fact that this is all highly irregular, John does have to admit that they _fit._ Perfectly.

"I was getting bored of waiting," Sherlock replies, voice lazy and somehow distracted, possibly by the feel of John's t-shirt still bunched beneath his fingertips.

"Waiting?"

In the pitch blackness of the room it's nearly impossible to prove but John is pretty sure that Sherlock is now giving him that _look._ The one that tells him to catch up, the one that seems to exist solely to remind him that actually, he's an idiot. He scowls back in Sherlock's general direction, just in case.

"Human relationships tend to work on a much slower time scale than my mind; I find I get impatient rather easily. This was clearly where we were going to end up, so I thought I'd just fast-forward a little bit."

John is stunned. Well, he sort of sees what Sherlock means but - somehow still stunned.

"'Fast-forward a little bit'?" He repeats, satisfied with the amount of incredulity in his tone. He feels Sherlock shift against him again and realises that every time it happens his body - completely instinctively - turns a little bit into the warmth pressed against it. So that now their legs appear to be intertwined.

He suspects that if this goes on much longer, he won't be able to muster much of an argument.

"A simple process, John," Sherlock says, and his voice is wonderfully close, wonderfully _intimate,_ John realises. He attempts to stop another shiver. "We've been getting closer for a number of weeks now, though the process appears to be progressing at an unusually dull speed so this evening whilst pondering the matter on the sofa I decided to excelerate things somewhat."

Slightly unable to believe what he is hearing, John twists the top half of his body slightly so that in the darkness he is - as far as he can tell - facing Sherlock, sharing the same pillow. He takes care not to untangle their legs, realises he hopes Sherlock won't either.

"Are you - are you treating us like a _chemical reaction?"_

Despite the darkness, John can practically feel the eyeroll. "Unless biology lessons completely passed you by, I'm sure you'll realise that human interactions are actually just a sequence of chemical reactions, John. Attraction, connection, sex - "

"Don't," John says suddenly. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Say 'sex' after crawling into bed with me."

Because what John _really_ doesn't need right now is to start imagining things. Things like that. Their lower limbs are far too tangled for things like that.

There is a brief huff of something akin to laughter and then Sherlock is curling his fingers into John's t-shirt again, skin brushing against skin this time. "Too far?"

"Yes," John replies. "We haven't even..."

"What?"

But John suddenly realises that _saying_ it will make it sound as though he's prompting it. And he's not, because deep down he's an old sentimentalist, and he believes that things should happen in their own good time.

"Lots of things, there are lots of things we haven't even done yet. There are supposed to be _steps_ towards these things."

Though it's still very dark, John's eyes are adjusting slightly and he can just about see a smile quirking up one side of Sherlock's mouth. "You really are very old fashioned, aren't you, John?"

"I don't go round crawling into people's beds in the middle of the night, if that's what you mean."

There is a heartbeat of silence whilst Sherlock's toes drag achingly slowly up and down the back of his calf, and then -

"Tell me then, what are these 'steps'?"

"The ones you've completely trampled over, you mean?"

From the curl of Sherlock's voice, John can tell he definitely is smiling this time. "Yes, the ones I've completely trampled over."

"Well..." John lets his mind drift for a second with the distracting feel of that foot delicately dragging against his skin then snaps back. "Dating. Food - people go out for food first."

"We eat together every night," Sherlock points out. "Only a matter of hours ago you stole the majority of my chips and I tactfully said absolutely nothing."

That, John had to concede, was very true. The chips had been _very_ good though.

"Fine, hand holding, then."

Sherlock actually snorts with derision. "How very quaint of you, John. Typical, though - come here." And underneath the bedclothes Sherlock finds John's fingers, laces them together. His skin is warm and much softer than John would have expected. He gets a brief and unexpected curl of something satisfying in his stomach when Sherlock squeezes gently. "Better?"

John waits until his voice sounds steady. "Much."

He waits carefully, the atmosphere in the bedroom entirely pregnant until -

"John?"

"What?"

"Are there any more steps you feel I have trampled over, or was it just the two?"

John thinks of the most pointless step he can. "Yes, meeting one another's friends."

Sherlock tuts. "Not something I have a plethora of - you've met yourself, I presume?"

"Yes."

"Well then, you've met my friend. Did you care for him?"

John tries not to smile. "Yes, he seems like a nice bloke."

"The best kind," Sherlock agrees. "Anything else?"

"We haven't discussed our likes and dislikes."

"Fine, how do you feel about cheese - like or dislike?"

"Like," John replies. "Most people like cheese."

"Wonderful," Sherlock says. "Me too. Scintillating stuff, this. So glad we didn't skip this step."

John realises that his palm has gone sweaty where it is pressed and held tightly against Sherlock's and he wonders if it will be obvious why - whether Sherlock will guess that he's nervous.

Silly, John thinks, of course he will.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Can I kiss you now, or did you want a list of my childhood pets first?"

John's mouth immediately quirks up into a smile and he is reminded of giggling at crime scenes.

Maybe they haven't missed steps out at all.

"I'd quite like the list first, please."

Then Sherlock's free hand is ghosting over his neck, fingers finding John's jawline and pulling him in closer until they're less than an inch apart. When he speaks, John can feel the words against his lips, making him more than ready to close the final gap between them. "My first goldfish was called Einstein, followed by Newton a few months later and - "

John silences him with a press of lips, tentative and careful. Immediately taking his cue, Sherlock kisses back, parting his lips once, twice until John catches on and goes with him, breath quickly mingling and becoming uneven as the swipe of a tongue turns into something more, something deeper.

John decides almost instantly that he's never kissed anyone quite like Sherlock before, all sharp angles and precise, perfect kisses that make him wonder what sex between them would be like (mindblowing, if the kiss is anything to go by). He finds himself lying back on the comfort of his pillow as Sherlock leans up between them on his elbow, taking control of the kiss swiftly and easily until John's head is spinning despite the fact he's lying down.

Sliding his fingers into the soft curls at the base of Sherlock's neck, John pulls him in closer until they're moving against each other perfectly - _too_ perfectly and he has to pull away to catch his breath.

"Wow," he mutters, "That was... amazing. Jesus."

Sherlock, busy tracing idle patterns under John's t-shirt with his fingers glances up in the darkness. "Are you aware you're saying that out loud?"

John swallows, pushing a hand through his own hair in embarrassment. "Yes, right, I'll stop that." He doesn't think he's ever felt so distracted in his entire life.

Then there is a press of warm, damp lips against the exposed skin of his neck and he squirms, actually _squirms_ with pleasure. "No," Sherlock says, breath hard and fast against his pulse point. "Do go on, don't stop on my account."

John finds that after that his distracted ramblings don't make much sense, anyway.


End file.
